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writesvani · 17 days ago

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down low | 04

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: SIGHS... jungkook's pov, explicit sexual content, rough sex, public sex risk, infidelity, choking (light breath play), degradation, possessiveness, voyeuristic elements, emotional manipulation, profanity, alcohol use, smoking, power imbalance, graphic sexual language, references to violence (boxing), mention of injuries/bruises, emotional distress, references to sexual frustration, suggestive texting, sexually explicit dialogue, smoking, praise kink, angst, class differences/wealth disparity, lying/deception, fingering, fucking against a wall, bathroom sex

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 7,5k // date: 11th of July 2025

CHAPTER FOUR — Dirty Little Detour; happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay hi everyone. down low 4 is HERE — are we excited or what?! because writing this chapter was fucking amazing for me, not even gonna lie. i think it might actually be the best thing i’ve ever written in my life and that says A LOT.

it’s jk’s pov and i had to crawl into his brain like a raccoon in a trash can. this was supposed to be my cute lil toxic smut story but NOPE. now i’ve got a 20-page character sheet for down low jungkook. and one for y/n too because queen deserves lore.

you’re not supposed to think jungkook’s a good person. you’re not. but i swear this fic is gonna show how complicated he is. how every word, every action, every thought clashes inside him. he’s so fucked up. and somehow he’s my fave male character i’ve ever written. like, i love him. i shouldn’t, but i do.

ANYWAY. note goal for this chapter is 700 because y’all hit 500 in four days and i wanna see how insane you can be for this toxic demon. love you. go read. go scream. enjoy the chaos.

Jungkook drags in deep breaths, chest rising and falling as he tries to steady his pulse. He closes his eyes for a moment, picturing the ring in vivid detail. He sees the opponent’s stance, the way his feet shift on the canvas, the glint of sweat on his brow. He knows the combos the guy might throw, the rhythm of his jab.

Sweat drips down Jungkook’s temple, stinging his eyes as he slams his fists into the heavy bag. Leather cracks against leather with every punch as he drills a rapid-fire combo: jab, cross, hook. He pivots on the balls of his feet, launches an uppercut that makes the bag shudder. His breath comes fast, sharp in the cavernous echo of the gym.

Namjoon circles him, holding up the pads, voice crisp and commanding. “Chin down. Eyes up. Slip left after the hook, don’t stay in the pocket too long.”

Jungkook grits his teeth as fire creeps up his arms from the earlier sets of battle ropes. His shoulders feel like stone, but he forces himself to keep moving, forcing himself to find the rhythm. He imagines his opponent again—closing in, feinting, looking for an opening.

He can’t drop his guard. Not here. Not ever.

Jungkook has never been the type to give up. Not in life, not when it comes to his family, and definitely not in the ring. He’s always measured his punches, calculated his steps, chosen his words with precision. But lately, that carefulness is starting to crack at the edges.

His life has always mirrored his work. And now, no matter how hard he tries to visualize the match—no matter how clearly he sees the punches landing—he feels too slow, too heavy, not sharp enough. For the first time, Jeon Jungkook is letting his guard down. And it’s fucking him up completely.

He slams a counterpunch into the speed bag, but the rhythm falters. The hit doesn’t have the snap it should.

“Footwork lighter, Jungkook!” Namjoon yells from behind him, voice bouncing off the gym walls.

Jungkook ignores him. His legs feel like lead. His shoulders burn. Everything feels off.

His work today is shit. His training session is shit. And, worst of all, he feels like shit.

Jungkook swipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his glove, feeling salt sting his eyes. Namjoon tosses him a towel, and he catches it one-handed, draping it around his neck. His chest heaves as he grabs his water bottle, unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers before chugging half of it in one go. The water tastes metallic, but he doesn’t care.

“What’s wrong with you, man?” Namjoon asks, voice edged with frustration, one hand planted firmly on his hip. His brows are drawn tight, sweat darkening his hair at the temples. Great. Now he’s pissed.

“Nothing,” Jungkook deadpans, dropping the bottle to his side. “I’m just tired.”

Namjoon studies him for a beat, eyes sharp. “Looks to me like you’re distracted.”

Jungkook lets out a dry laugh, though it sounds more like a scoff. “Hah. As if.”

But the words feel hollow as soon as they leave his mouth. His pulse still thrums in his ears. His gaze drifts back to the heavy bag swinging gently from his last hit.

He knows it’s a lie. He is distracted.

“Cut the shit, Jungkook,” Namjoon snaps, eyes blazing. “The match is in days. You don’t get to check out now—not when we’re this close.”

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. “I’m not checking out,” he mutters, digging into his backpack. “I’m just breathing.”

“Breathing?” Namjoon scoffs. “You call this breathing? You’ve been off since you walked in. Slow, sloppy—”

“Yeah, I know,” Jungkook cuts in, pulling out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. He doesn’t even wait for Namjoon to finish—he’s already moving, dragging his tired legs toward the exit.

“Where the hell are you going?” Namjoon calls out, voice louder now, tinged with disbelief.

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

Just for now. He’ll deal with the consequences later. Right now, he needs quiet.

Cold wind punches him in the face the second he steps outside, sharp enough to steal the breath from his lungs. Goosebumps rise across his arms, sweat cooling into a chill that seeps through his shirt. But he barely notices.

He leans against the rough concrete wall, pressing the back of his skull into it like he’s trying to ground himself. For a second, he just stands there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling, as if the wall itself might hold him up.

Then he digs into the cigarette pack, fingers clumsy and trembling, pulling one free and placing it between his lips. His teeth clamp around the filter like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He flicks his lighter. A tiny spark flares—and dies instantly in the wind.

He tries again. And again. And again.

The wheel of the lighter scrapes under his thumb, biting into tender skin already rubbed raw. Tiny flecks of black debris fall onto his palm. The lighter sputters, flames snuffed out before they can properly catch.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice tight with frustration. He cups his free hand around the cigarette’s tip, trying to block the wind, but the gusts slip through the gaps between his fingers. His breath hitches as he exhales, the sharp edge of a growl in his throat.

He shifts position, hunched forward like he’s protecting something precious, shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed in concentration. The cigarette quivers in his mouth with every shiver of cold.

His thumb aches with every flick. He knows he should stop—that he’s hurting himself for nothing—but there’s something deep in his chest, clawing at him, whispering that he needs this.

Because when Jungkook craves something, nothing—not cold wind, not bruised skin, not the world falling apart—can keep it from him.

He tries one last time. Flick.

A fragile flame catches, burning stubborn and bright. He brings it closer, shielding it like a secret, and finally ignites the cigarette. Smoke hisses around the filter, swirling into the night air.

He drags in a long inhale, and the burn sears down his throat, settling into his lungs like an anchor. His lashes flutter shut as his body unwinds, shoulders sinking against the concrete.

For a moment—just one blessed, fleeting moment—everything else disappears. And all that’s left is the taste of smoke, the throb in his thumb, and the relief of having what he wanted.

He taps the end of his cigarette, watching ash crumble away and scatter like silver dust on the breeze. The wind catches it, swirling it into the night air before it disappears.

With his free hand, he digs into his pocket, fingers brushing over the frayed lining, searching for his phone. Empty. His lips twist into a silent curse. Great. He left it inside.

Now he’s stuck out here—alone, with nothing but his thoughts gnawing at him.

His mind flickers to Eunji. She’d texted him before training, sending three, four messages that buzzed against his thigh, but he couldn’t bring himself to reply. He makes a mental note to text her back later. If he leaves it too long, she’ll get clingy. Dramatic. Suspicious.

And he can’t afford her being suspicious. Not when there’s you.

Fuck. He hates how quickly his brain jumps to you. How there’s barely any distance between Eunji’s name in his phone and the thought of your skin, your mouth. Like a hairline crack in glass, ready to shatter with the slightest pressure.

And he hates you.

No. He doesn’t.

Hating you would mean feeling something. And he can’t afford that, either.

You’re cool. You’re sharp, funny as hell. And fuck, you’re beautiful in a way that makes his pulse trip over itself. The kind of beautiful that demands attention the moment you step into a room. The kind that makes it impossible to look away.

But it’s not just that. It’s the way your lips part when you’re turned on, breath catching like you’re surprised by your own need. The way your nails dig into his shoulders when you’re close, as though you’re afraid you’ll break apart if you let go. The way you look up at him through heavy lashes while his name tumbles from your lips like a secret.

You fuck like you’re starving for it—like you’ll die if he’s not inside you, filling every inch, claiming every sound you make. And the worst part is how fucking good it feels. How easy it would be to let you become the only thing that matters.

But you weren’t made for him. This…whatever the hell this is…is just a glitch in the system. A glitch that’s lasting way too long. A glitch that could tear everything apart if he’s not careful.

He doesn’t see you like that.

He doesn’t.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burns, his eyes fixed on the dark street beyond the parking lot. The wind slices through him, but he barely feels it.

And yet, as he exhales, he swears he can taste you in the back of his throat—sweet, electric, impossible to forget.

Eunji opens the door with a soft smile, the kind that looks like home if he were in the mood to recognize it. There’s a dusting of flour on her cheeks, her hair a bit tousled and her apron hanging lopsided on her frame.

“Missed you,” she says with a bright grin, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in the crook. She holds him like she means it—like her entire body is trying to memorize the shape of him.

His hands fall to her waist automatically. Because they’re supposed to. Because that’s what she expects. It should feel natural.

But the scent that wafts from her apartment wraps around him like smoke.

Cinnamon.

Fuck. You smell like cinnamon.

It’s a dangerous thought. A betrayal blooming in his chest.

“Missed you too,” he mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.

She giggles, bright and easy, and tugs him inside, locking the door behind them. “God, you always smell like sweat and cologne. It’s so unfair,” she teases, pressing her nose to his neck. “It’s hot.”

He gives a quiet laugh, not quite forced—but not quite real either. “You baking something?” he asks, nodding toward the oven as he slips off his shoes. He tries to sound curious. Invested. Present.

She turns back toward the kitchen, checking the oven through the glass. “Mhm, cinnamon rolls. You’re a sucker for anything with cinnamon, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sinking into her couch and stretching his legs out. “Something like that.”

She hums, walking back toward him, hands still slightly damp from washing. She dries them on a kitchen towel and then climbs into his lap without hesitation, straddling him, arms curling around his neck again. “You okay, baby? You seem… off.”

“Just tired from training,” he murmurs, running a hand up and down her back. “You know how it is.”

“Mhm,” she whispers, planting a soft kiss on his jaw. “You always push yourself so hard. You never know when to slow down.”

“Can’t afford to. Not right now. The match is too close.”

“I know,” she pouts, resting her forehead against his. “But you’re still human, Jungkook. You need rest. You need to take care of yourself, too. What if you burn out?”

“Then I burn out,” he mutters, half-joking, eyes flickering away from hers.

She grabs his face in her hands, gently guiding his gaze back. “Don’t say that. You matter more than a match. You matter to me.”

He holds her stare for a moment, feeling the weight of her sincerity pressing down on him. She means every word. And he wishes—he really fucking wishes—he could meet her halfway.

“I know,” he says quietly, giving her hand a light squeeze. Her skin is warm and soft beneath his fingers. Familiar.

But it doesn’t feel like silk.

Nothing feels like silk these days.

She kisses his jaw again, pressing soft, fluttery kisses along the line of his throat. Her lips are gentle, hesitant, like she’s afraid he might pull away. His hands twitch by his sides, uncertain.

“Well… if you’re tired…” she murmurs, her lips brushing over his skin as she speaks, “I could help you relax.” Her voice drops, shy and breathy. She keeps kissing lower, nudging her nose against the pulse hammering in his neck.

He tilts his head, watching her closely. The way her cheeks glow pink, the small crease between her brows as though she’s nervous she’s being too forward. Eunji isn’t coy. She isn’t seductive. She’s sweet and earnest and a little shy.

And none of that is what he craves right now.

But she’s the right one.

“Mhm… maybe you could, pretty girl,” he says, his mouth curling into a smirk as he cups her face and pulls her into a kiss. He kisses her slow and warm, letting it linger longer than he feels.

She sighs into the kiss—a soft, pretty sound any man would kill to hear. The kind of sigh he should be dying for.

But he isn’t.

Even as she melts against him, all he can think about is you. The way you’d already be grinding your hips into his, your fingers fisted in his hair, your lips tugging at his ear as you whisper the filthiest things. The way you’d be half-moan, half-laugh, daring him to shut you up.

You’d be begging for it. Fuck, you love to beg.

Guilt claws at his chest, sharp and sudden. He hates himself for thinking about you. For letting your phantom touch creep into this moment that should belong to Eunji.

He knows he should stop. Not because he’s cheating. Jungkook has cheated before. Plenty of times. He never felt guilty about it. Never felt guilty about fucking you while pretending to love someone else.

But this… this feels different.

He feels guilty because he’s cheating on himself. Feels like he’s betraying the person he’s supposed to be.

And he doesn’t even know why.

Eunji pulls back just enough to look into his eyes, searching his face for permission. For connection. “Let me take care of you,” she whispers.

He swallows hard, then nods, letting his hands slip under her shirt, palms skimming warm skin. She shivers at his touch, eyes fluttering shut, and slides off his lap to sink to her knees in front of him.

He watches her, detached and almost clinical, as she fumbles with his belt. Her fingers are soft, reverent, touching him like he’s precious. Like he matters. And he wishes—for the briefest second—that it felt as good as it’s supposed to.

So he lets her. Lets her take him into her mouth, lets her cheeks hollow around him as she moans softly. Lets her look up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, seeking praise he can barely summon.

He pulls her up afterward, lays her down on the couch, kisses her neck as she gasps his name. He fucks her slowly, because that’s what she likes. Because that’s what a good boyfriend would do. He watches her come apart, moaning into his mouth like she can’t get enough of him.

But in the back of his mind, he’s kissing different lips. Whispering different words. Hearing different whines.

He fucks someone else—through her.

When they finish, Eunji lays on his chest, her breath still uneven. She rests her head over his heart, letting the quiet thump lull her. He threads his fingers through her silky hair, absently staring at a crack in the ceiling paint.

She shifts, twisting her head to look up at him. “You know… Jimin’s throwing a party tonight at his place,” she says, her fingertip lightly tracing slow circles over his chest.

He’s instantly on alert. He knows exactly what she’s hinting at—and hates that she can’t just say what she wants. He drags his eyes down to hers, pretending to look puzzled. “Okay…?” he says, voice pitched innocently.

Jimin. Right. Her classmate from college. But more importantly, your friend. The same Jimin who, from what he remembers, you’d said was throwing the party. If you’re going to be there… he’s going to be there. He doesn’t even have to think about it.

He fucking hates that.

“So I was thinking…” Eunji continues, hesitating, “…maybe we could go tonight? Together? We never really go anywhere as a couple…” Her eyes are wide and shiny, full of quiet hope. She blinks up at him, lashes sweeping her cheeks, like she’s afraid he might say no.

He clears his throat, stalling for time he doesn’t actually need. Because the answer is already decided.

“Sure, bub. I’m in.” He forces a smile, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

She lets out a high, delighted squeak, then kisses him hard on the mouth. “Oh my God, I have to call Lili—she’s been asking if I’m going!” she babbles, already scrambling out of his arms, hair mussed and cheeks flushed.

He watches her disappear into the other room, voice floating back as she dials her friend.

Good.

The second she’s out of sight, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up as he unlocks it, thumb moving fast and familiar. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds yours.

He stares at the name for a second, thumb hovering over it. A tightness squeezes his chest, but he doesn’t let himself think about it.

He taps your name. Types out a message.

him: you going to jimin’s tn?

It’s simple. Careless. It should be.

His phone pings seconds later. Your reply comes almost instantly, like you crave him just as much as he craves you.

you 🧃: yea i will? why?

him: i’ll be there tn

you 🧃: tf?? you can’t just show up. i’m going with tae. do u even know jimin personally??

He rolls his eyes, thumb flying over the keys.

him: going w eunji. he’s her classmate or some shit

him: and i don’t give a fuck about tae

him: might be fun seeing how quiet i can make you with my cock in front of him

He can’t stop himself.

you 🧃: fuck off

you 🧃: wonder what your sweet lil girlfriend would think about that

you 🧃: seriously, don’t come. please.

him: i don’t care what she thinks

him: i’m coming. try and stop me

you 🧃: jesus christ. fine. come.

him: i am. hard already thinking about it

you 🧃: shut the fuck up. just don’t look at me or talk to me or anything

you 🧃: pretend you don’t know me

him: yeah, sure. i’ll ignore you.

him: but you owe me. at least show me what you’re wearing tonight. or nothing at all.

you 🧃: fuck no

you 🧃: wait and see tonight, kook

him: you’re torture

you 🧃: cry about it

him: i will. in your pussy.

you 🧃: bet. let’s see if you’ve got the balls

He steps into the party with Eunji’s hand in his, his palm clammy against hers. He’s hyperaware of it, the way sweat slicks their skin. But when he glances over, she’s beaming, eyes wide with excitement. She doesn’t even seem to notice—or care. She’s too busy glowing under the lights, like she’s been waiting to show him off.

The bass thrums so deep it shakes the floor beneath his sneakers. The place is packed—college kids shoulder to shoulder, red cups in hand, shots poured over tongues, laughter spilling into every corner. There’s a pair already half-naked on the stairs, making out like they’ll die if they come up for air. Secrets are being passed around like expensive cologne—quick, intoxicating, and gone before you can ask.

It all feels… familiar. And distant.

It reminds him of when he was still in college. The chaos, the freedom, the recklessness. He misses it. Misses being the guy who only had to worry about finals, not whether the rent’s late or his knuckles are bruised too raw to train.

But that’s over. He dropped out. He’s different now.

He scans Jimin’s parents’ house. It’s nice—too nice. Hardwood floors polished to a shine, tall ceilings, expensive vases he could probably hawk for enough money to pay off half his mom’s debts. Jimin’s family is doing well, clearly. Lucky bastards.

Eunji squeezes his hand tighter, dragging him deeper into the crowd.

“Let’s find Jimin—I wanna say hi!” she shouts over the music.

He grunts, distracted. “What about Lili?”

“We’ll find her too. But he’s the host,” she rolls her eyes, like he’s being dense. “We gotta be polite.”

She tugs him along, weaving around dancing bodies and throwing polite waves to friends he vaguely recognizes from campus. She leans close to mutter something catty about a guy’s hair, and he lets out a quick snort, because that’s what she wants—a boyfriend who listens.

They make it to the kitchen.

“There he is!” Eunji says, eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, hiiii!”

A blond guy turns around, grin bright and wide, his energy buzzing like a live wire. Jimin. The name Jungkook’s heard enough times from your lips to piece it together.

They shake hands, Jimin’s grip warm and easy. Jungkook forces a polite smile, though his mind’s already drifting.

And then—he sees you.

It’s like getting punched.

Behind Jimin, half-hidden by the kitchen island, sits a guy perched on a stool, laughing way too hard, head tossed back like he’s trying to steal the spotlight. A redhead is giggling beside him, some other guy gesturing wildly as he talks.

But all Jungkook sees is you.

You’re slotted between the guy’s spread thighs, your back snug against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. One of his arms hooks around your waist, possessive, fingers splayed across your stomach. You’re laughing too, the kind of bright, carefree sound that scrapes something raw inside Jungkook’s chest.

He can’t drag his eyes away. The way you tilt your face when the guy—Taehyung, he realizes, your idiotic boyfriend—leans in to whisper something in your ear. The way your fingers toy absently with the thin chain around his neck. The way your bare thigh presses tight against the denim between Taehyung’s legs.

Jungkook wets his lips, jaw tightening. His pulse hammers in his throat.

Well, hello Kim Taehyung.

I’m screwing your girl.

But he doesn’t say it.

He just stands there beside Eunji, nodding along to whatever she and Jimin are talking about. Acting like the perfect boyfriend. Smiling when he needs to. Even as he keeps stealing glances at you.

“Yo!” Jimin shouts, cheeks flushed from booze and the adrenaline of playing host. “Let me introduce you to my besties.”

Perfect. Jungkook resists the urge to smirk. Jimin’s about to serve this up on a silver platter—and doesn’t even know it.

Jungkook drifts forward, casual, eyes lazy under half-lowered lids. But he clocks the way your gaze darts to him. Fast. Like a spark. Gone again almost instantly.

But he saw it. Of course you’re looking.

He slings his arm around Eunji’s shoulders, drawing her closer until her hip bumps his thigh. She leans in, pink and glowing, oblivious to the way the air just shifted around them.

“Guys, this is Eunji,” Jimin announces, gesturing at her. She gives a shy little wave, her eyes wide as she glances around.

“And this is her boyfriend, Jungkook.”

Jungkook inclines his chin slightly, scanning the circle of faces. “Hey.”

“Yo, I’m Rob,” says a tall guy with wild gestures, grinning as he shakes Eunji’s hand first, then Jungkook’s.

Jungkook takes his hand, firm. So this is Rob—the friend you once described in breathless detail as loud, funny, and annoying as hell.

“I’m Taehyung,” the guy perched behind you says next, voice smooth, deep. He unwinds one arm from your waist to reach out and shake Eunji’s hand, then Jungkook’s.

Jungkook’s eyes flick to the arm that was just gripping your waist. He wonders how Taehyung would look if he knew how many times Jungkook has held you there. How many times you’ve gasped when Jungkook pressed you into a mattress, hands digging into those same curves. How many bruises you had to cover up with makeup so he wouldn’t see.

“Nice meeting you, man,” Jungkook says, voice silky, lips tugging into a polite curve.

Then his gaze slides over to the redhead.

Her eyes go wide the instant they meet his. Recognition flashes across her features like lightning, then vanishes behind a polite mask.

Jungkook feels a slow grin stretch across his lips.

Ah. So your little bestie knows. Of course she fucking does.

“Lara,” she says crisply, shaking his hand. Her fingers are cool, her eyes flicking nervously to you before dropping away.

Then your voice cuts through the hum of music and laughter like a blade.

“Hi, guys. I’m Y/N.”

Your tone is breezy. Effortless. You bat your lashes and smile at both him and Eunji, your whole posture dripping casual calm.

But he sees it.

He sees the faint tremble in your fingers as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The way your eyes keep darting toward the spot where his hand rests on Eunji’s bare shoulder. The way you press your palm firmly onto Taehyung’s thigh, like you’re staking your claim—or steadying yourself.

“Mm,” Jungkook hums, as you hold out your hand to him. He takes it slowly, deliberately, pressing his fingers around yours. He lets the silence stretch as he traces his thumb lightly over the delicate skin of your wrist. Then, as you try to pull away, he lets his pinky glide along your palm, grazing lightly beneath it.

A violent shiver ripples through your body. Goosebumps break out along your arm.

No one notices. Except him.

“You seem familiar,” he says finally, voice dropping low enough that it’s almost private.

Your eyes flash, just for an instant, like you want to slap him across the face. But you catch yourself, biting the inside of your cheek instead.

Beside you, Lara swallows hard, her fingers tapping out a frantic rhythm against the kitchen counter.

“Must’ve seen me around campus or something,” you say lightly, shifting your weight, your back pressing tighter against Taehyung’s chest.

“Really?” Jungkook murmurs, tilting his head as if he’s genuinely curious. “I don’t go to college anymore.”

“Well…” You tip your chin up, and there’s a dangerous glint in your eyes now. “Maybe while you were still going.”

He laughs softly, a sound that vibrates in his chest. “Ah. Right. While I was still going.”

He lets his eyes slide down your body, lingering just a fraction too long at your mouth, then your throat, then the line of your waist tucked so neatly into Taehyung’s possessive arms.

Your lips part, ready to retort, but for half a second your eyes betray you. Something dark and hungry flickers across your face.

Oh. So you do want to play.

“Guys, do you wanna join us?” Rob pipes up, waving a bottle of tequila in the air. “We were just about to take some shots.”

Eunji immediately glances at Jungkook, eyes wide and hopeful, practically vibrating with the need to fit in. She doesn’t even have to say anything. Not with him. Not under these circumstances.

“Sure,” Jungkook says smoothly, sliding onto an empty barstool.

Eunji doesn’t hesitate; she plants herself right onto his thigh, squealing a little as she balances her weight. She’s already laughing with Rob, talking a mile a minute about some asshole professor who’s apparently making their semester hell.

Whatever. Jungkook barely hears her.

He’s focused on you.

Specifically, on the way Taehyung leans forward and buries his face in the curve of your neck. His lips brush over your skin as he whispers something low and secretive, and you giggle, the sound bright and too goddamn pretty.

Taehyung’s a good-looking guy. Jungkook will give him that. The kind of face people stop to admire. Art-student cheekbones. A dangerous grin.

You’ve got excellent taste in men, apparently.

Jungkook’s eyes slide lower, tracking the possessive way Taehyung’s hand spreads over your waist, fingers splayed wide like he’s claiming territory.

Soft hands, Jungkook thinks. Untouched. The hands of a man who’s never thrown a punch hard enough to rattle his own bones. Hands that don’t know how it feels to hit until your knuckles split open, or grip leather so tight your fingers go numb.

He glances down at his own. The knuckles are dry, scabbed over, ridged with old scars. His palms are rough, callused from rope burns, leather, and sweat.

For a split second, something hot and ugly boils in his chest. Envy.

Resentment.

His fingers twitch, curling subtly against Eunji’s thigh.

When he finally looks back up, your eyes are waiting for him.

You’re watching him right back, face unreadable, your lashes low as if trying to hide how wide your pupils have gone.

Jungkook schools his features into an easy grin. Pretends none of those thoughts just crawled through his skull. He reaches out and grabs a shot glass, knocking back the tequila in one clean tilt.

It barely burns at all.

Eunji’s phone vibrates on the counter, the screen lighting up bright enough to catch Jungkook’s eye.

“It’s Lili,” she announces, thumb already flying across her screen. “We have to go find her.”

Fuck.

Jungkook doesn’t want to go look for Lili. Not when you’re standing right there in front of him. In those tiny fucking shorts. In that dark green tube top hugging your chest like a second skin. Not when you keep looking at him with those eyes—eyes that flicker to him like you can’t help yourself, no matter who’s touching you.

But if he stays behind now, it’s gonna be suspicious.

So he forces himself to nod, pressing a quick kiss to Eunji’s temple.

“We gotta find my friend, guys,” Eunji says brightly to the group, scooting off his lap. “We’ll come back later!”

She gives a cute little wave, beaming at you and the others. Jungkook trails after her, his hand wrapped around hers, every muscle in his body strung tight.

And just as he’s about to step through the doorway, he hears it.

Your voice.

“See you later.”

It’s casual. Breezy. Soft enough that it could be meant for both of them.

But he knows better.

That’s not just a goodbye for now. That’s a fucking promise.

A slow, wicked smile curls his lips as he glances back over his shoulder.

“See you,” he sing-songs, letting the words roll off his tongue as he disappears behind his girlfriend.

Because you’re going to be his tonight. Again.

Jungkook feels like hours have crawled by since he last saw you, though in reality it’s maybe forty-five minutes. An hour at most. Who fucking knows. Who fucking cares.

He’s sitting beside Eunji, who’s laughing with Lili about some college lacrosse game. He’s not even pretending to listen.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket.

His mouth twitches into a smirk as he slides it out, already knowing who’s waiting on the other end.

He cuts a glance at Eunji. She’s oblivious, completely absorbed in her conversation. Perfect.

you 🧃: she’s pretty

He can practically hear your voice in his head. That sly, taunting little tone.

him: not prettier than you bent over for me

you 🧃: fuck you

him: u will. soon.

you 🧃: tae’s hands are on my thighs rn

him: and i bet all u can think about is mine on ur throat

you 🧃: jungkook.

him: mmm say it again

you 🧃: did u really have to say i look familiar? r u fucking crazy?

him: crazy for u. u look too good in that top. i keep thinking about pulling it down and sucking those pretty tits right in front of ur little boyfriend

you 🧃: you’re disgusting

him: and u love it. ur pussy’s prob wet rn just texting me

you 🧃: have u ever considered shutting the fuck up?

him: i would

him: but then who’d make u cum so hard u cry?

you 🧃: asshole

you 🧃: you still here? at the party?

him: why? wanna sneak away and ride my cock like u did at my place last week?

you 🧃: just answer the question asshole

him: i’m here

you 🧃: 2nd floor. last door on the right. it’s a bathroom but no one uses it.

him: i fuckin knew u’d fold.

you 🧃: you have 5 minutes or i’m going back downstairs to tae.

him: u won’t. u wanna feel my cum dripping down ur thighs too bad

“Bub, I gotta hit the bathroom,” Jungkook murmurs in Eunji’s ear, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

“You feeling sick, babe? Should I come with you?” she asks, worry creasing her brow.

He gives her a pained wince, feigning discomfort, and crafts the perfect lie.

“Must’ve eaten something fucked up… You know how it is.”

She wrinkles her nose, giggling. “Okay, okay—I get it. Go do your thing.”

And so he does.

He doesn’t sprint or rush. He walks casually up the stairs, shoulders loose, his pace easy. He knows you’ll be there waiting. No reason to hurry.

The upstairs hallway is empty, muffled bass from the party thudding distantly below.

Jungkook stalks toward the last door on the right. Opens it like he owns the fucking house.

You flinch the moment he steps inside.

“Fuck, I thought it was someone else—” you blurt, breathless, hands waving, but Jungkook’s already flicking the lock shut behind him.

“Why? Were you expecting someone else?” His voice drips sarcasm, arms folding over his chest as he leans against the door.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, actually. I sent the same text to all my hookups. Gonna see who shows up first and—mmph.”

He cuts you off, crashing his mouth onto yours.

You gasp into the kiss, fists grabbing his shirt collar, yanking him closer like you’re furious and starving at the same time.

Jungkook groans low in his chest, biting your lower lip just enough to make you whimper. Your moan melts into his mouth, sweet and sharp as tequila.

He slides a hand around your waist, dragging you flush to his chest. You smell like cinnamon and sweat and that expensive perfume you only wear when you want him wrecked.

It’s working.

“You talk too fucking much,” he mutters against your lips.

“Then shut me up,” you shoot back, breathless.

He smirks.

“Oh, baby. I intend to.”

And his mouth claims yours again, fiercer this time, teeth grazing your tongue as his fingers dig into your hips like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or swallow you whole.

“You’re such an asshole,” you choke out, voice ragged, as Jungkook’s mouth drags hot and wet across your neck.

He can’t fucking stop. He’s rabid for your skin, your scent, the way you shiver when his lips brush over your pulse.

“You had to—”

Your words dissolve into a broken moan when his teeth graze hard over your collarbone, biting down just shy of leaving a mark.

“Had to flaunt her in front of me,” you spit out, breathless, fingernails digging into his back through his shirt, clutching him like you’re hanging on for dear life.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Jungkook snarls, voice a ragged growl, as he fists the top of your tube top and yanks it down.

Your tits bounce free, nipples tight and pebbled in the cool air. No bra. Nothing to hide how fucking perfect they are.

“You were practically about to let him fuck you right there in front of me,” he hisses, voice venomous, already lowering his head.

And then his mouth crashes onto one nipple, lips closing around it hard, sucking deep until your whole body jolts.

“Fuck—Jungkook—” you sob, twisting under him as he drags his tongue over your sensitive flesh, swirling and flicking until you’re panting like an animal.

He switches sides without warning, devouring the other nipple, biting just enough to sting, then licking the ache away, his spit cooling on your skin.

“Look at you,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to breathe hot words against your chest, “acting so fucking pure when you’re soaking through those tiny shorts for my cock.”

One of his hands snakes down, roughly cupping your pussy through the thin fabric, pressing his fingers against the damp heat.

“Already wet,” he mutters darkly, eyes glittering with feral hunger. “Fucking knew it. You’d let me fuck you right here if I wanted. Wouldn’t you?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a strangled moan as he rubs you harder, dragging the heel of his palm over your clit until your knees threaten to buckle.

“Say it,” he demands, breath coming harsh. “Tell me whose cock you’re thinking about while he’s got his hands all over you downstairs.”

“You—yours, yours Jungkook,” you stammer, voice cracking as your hips grind helplessly into his touch.

“Fucking right it’s mine,” he snarls, crushing his mouth to yours again.

His tongue dives between your lips, filthy and possessive, devouring every sound you make as his fingers work you through your shorts, pressing tighter and faster.

“You keep acting like you hate me,” he breathes into your mouth, “but you’re gonna cum all over my fingers in 5 minutes. Bet.”

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t have a single fucking second to spare.

His hands fly to the button of your shorts, popping it open in one practiced flick. He shoves them halfway down your thighs, fingers slipping beneath the band of your panties like he’s got a goddamn right to be there.

And maybe he does.

“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead pressing to yours as his eyes search your face, wild and dark. “You’re fucking drenched for me.”

His fingertips drag through your folds, gathering slick, but purposely avoiding the spot where you need him most. Instead, he teases you, tracing slow circles just above your clit, close enough to make you twitch, never close enough to satisfy.

He leans forward and ghosts a soft kiss over your lips, deceptively gentle.

Then he finds your clit.

Your body reacts like he’s shocked you. You arch hard, tits thrusting toward him again, nipples flushed and begging for attention.

He’s more than happy to oblige.

His mouth clamps over one tight bud, sucking it deep as his fingers rub ruthless circles over your clit, fast and relentless, like he’s trying to etch his name into your nerves.

Your moans spill out ragged, desperate. His name rips from your throat over and over, raw and shameless.

His free hand shoots up, slapping over your mouth, palm pressing hard.

“Quiet it down, beautiful,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t want anyone thinking we’re being… inappropriate in here, do we?”

You shudder, eyes rolling back as you bite down on the fleshy base of his palm just to keep from screaming.

He loves it. Loves the way your pupils blow wide, the way you fight to breathe against his hand, the way your thighs quake around his wrist.

His breath saws in and out as he slides two fingers deep inside you, groaning low in his chest when your heat clamps around him.

“Shit… so fucking tight… you’re gonna make me lose my goddamn mind,” he rasps, voice shredded with need.

He pumps his fingers into you, curling them just right, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit. Slick sounds fill the bathroom, obscene and wet, echoing off the tile.

“Look at me,” he commands, pulling his mouth from your nipple just long enough to stare into your dazed eyes. “Look at me while I make you cum all over my fingers. Right fucking now.”

Your body locks up, trembling, teetering on the edge of detonation. And he can’t wait another fucking second.

Because if he doesn’t bury himself inside you soon… he’s pretty sure he’ll fucking combust.

He spins you around in a blur, pressing your chest into the wall so fast you gasp, palms splayed out flat against the tile for balance.

Before you can catch your breath, his hand leaves your mouth. He’s fumbling with his belt, cursing under his breath, the metal buckle clinking wildly until he finally shoves his pants down.

But even while he wrestles his clothes off, he never stops working your clit. His fingers grind merciless circles, slick and fast, until you’re trembling, arching your ass back into him, the back of your head pressing desperately against his chest.

“That’s right… that’s just how you were perched on that loser’s lap downstairs,” he snarls, breath hot against your ear, his voice dripping with venom and lust.

A broken moan rips out of your throat.

His hand slaps over your mouth again, silencing you just as he lines himself up.

And then he slams into you. No warning. No hesitation. Just thick cock spearing deep in one brutal thrust.

Your muffled cry echoes through his palm as your body jolts forward, forehead bumping the wall.

Jungkook groans like an animal, fingers digging bruises into your hip as he holds you still and sinks even deeper.

He doesn’t fuck you soft.

He fucks you like he’s trying to own every inch of you. Like he wants to split you open and crawl inside. Like the entire world outside that bathroom can burn for all he cares.

His hips pound into you, relentless, hard enough the slap of skin on skin echoes off the tile walls. His chest is flush to your back, breath ragged as he snarls in your ear:

“Fucking take it… take every inch, baby…”

Your eyes roll back, tears springing from the corners as the pressure builds impossibly tight.

He twists his hand in your hair, wrenching your head sideways until he can see your face. His other hand is still clamped over your mouth, catching every broken sob.

“Look at me,” he growls, hips hammering you so hard your tits bounce against the wall. “I wanna see your fucking eyes when you cum.”

Your vision blurs, heat flooding your core, body clamping down around him so tight he chokes on a curse.

And Jungkook loses it.

He fucks you faster, deeper, like he’s chasing the end of the world, until there’s no room for thought—only moans and sweat and filthy skin-on-skin.

He’s gonna ruin you. And you’re gonna let him.

Your body convulses around him, every nerve firing white-hot as he rams into you, over and over. Your moans vibrate against his palm, strangled and desperate.

“Fucking hell, look at you,” Jungkook snarls, sweat dripping down his temples, teeth bared as he stares into your tear-glazed eyes. “So fucking perfect when you’re stuffed full of me.”

His hips snap forward, every thrust slamming your hips into the wall so hard you swear it’ll leave bruises. You feel everything—the thickness of him stretching you wide, the rough drag of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go black around the edges.

And he just. Won’t. Stop.

He rips his hand from your mouth and replaces it on your throat, squeezing lightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your next breath tremble.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, voice broken, “please—”

“Please what, baby?” he hisses, rutting into you so deep your toes curl in your shoes. “Say it.”

“Please… lemme cum…” you sob out, nails scraping helplessly at the wall.

“Ohhh, you wanna cum for me?” His lips graze your ear, filthy and mocking. “Go on, then. Fucking cum. Show me how this pussy belongs to me.”

And then his thumb finds your clit again, circling it fast and merciless, perfectly synced with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts.

The orgasm hits you so hard it feels like your soul leaves your body.

You scream his name, loud and raw, voice echoing off the bathroom tiles as your walls clamp down on him in pulsing waves. Your legs nearly give out, trembling violently as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—fuck—” Jungkook grits out, hips stuttering, eyes glued to where he’s buried deep inside you. “You��re squeezing me so fucking tight—shit—”

He pulls you back flush against his chest, his teeth biting his lips so hard he thinks it’s going to bleed, as he pumps a few more frantic thrusts.

And then he’s spilling inside you, a broken groan tearing from his chest as his cock pulses, flooding you with heat. His entire body shudders against yours, breath ragged as he rides it out, grinding into you until he’s milked every last drop.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of panting, of your wet, slick bodies pressed together.

Finally, he loosens his grip on your throat, dragging his lips along your jaw, voice hoarse.

“As I said, knew you’d fold for me.”

He kisses you, filthy and deep, like he’s trying to claim your soul along with your body.

“Now fix your fucking hair,” he murmurs against your lips, smirking. “Don’t want your little boyfriend getting suspicious, do we?”

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